


Knifepoint

by oponn



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Dark Sansa, Dubious Consent, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Past Sexual Abuse, Past Violence, Sightless Sex, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-14
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-09-18 06:45:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16990014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oponn/pseuds/oponn
Summary: Out of all the people in Westeros who have reason to hold a knife to the Hound's throat as he sleeps, she's the one he expected least.





	Knifepoint

In his dreams the wind would scream and growl in his ears, the soundtrack to flashes of icy blue eyes and faces made of sunken, rotted flesh. An endless hazy white with fat flakes of snow whipping past, snippets of Gregor’s laughter and the jeering of a boy King.  

It was loud – always loud – in his dreams. Horses screaming as they toppled over spears that sunk into their chests, the horrified pleading of women being forcibly ravaged, the plaintive broken howls of traumatized children. Smoke and fire and trees being broken, stone walls collapsing under the crush of siege machines punctuated with the hoarse roar of the Targaryen Queen’s dragon kin.  

Since he’d come back from north of the Wall the scorching chill of the wind echoed inside Sandor’s head endlessly, like a promise yet to be fulfilled.  

Coupled with his experience serving the Iron Throne, his ability to sleep anywhere and wake up alert was unparalleled. Unless he was exhausted and reasonably sure he was safe, he never had his guard down.  

That’s how he knew he wasn’t alone in his room anymore.  

His eyes sprung open in the oppressive darkness and his hand moved to slide under the pillow for the dagger he kept there when he stiffened at the cold bite of steel on his neck.  

“ _Don’t_ ,” A female voice growled inches away.  

He stopped moving, his brain coming to the surface from layers of sleep as quickly as possible. He didn’t move, his hand freezing in place and his sharp intake of air unmistakably annoyed.  

“Thought I was off yer list,” He rumbled sleepily and tried to push against the slight weight of her on the bed but was cut off by the flash of pain as the blade bit his skin when she pushed back.  

“I don’t know who is dumber. Me, for overvaluing myself to you or you, always being loyal to the masters who want you least,” The shadow answered with a rage that caused her voice to be tremulous and rough. Understanding swept through him violently, like a tidal wave on a piece of driftwood.  

“Sansa,” He stated with mild relief and stopped when she pushed the dagger again and it cut further. The wound stung, thin rivets of fire on the careful tendons chording his neck.  

“I said _don’t_. I don’t want to hear anything that comes from your tongue. Your words have haunted me since I left King’s Landing, torturing me every time I tried to trust someone,” She snarled at him and he could hear her panting through her emotions in between breaths. She sounded rabid, like she was wildly out of control and further losing her grip as more of it escaped her.  

He should have known.  

His arrival to Winterfell had been as uneventful as the Bastard King had promised him. The guards mostly stayed out of his way, his horse was his problem, and the wolfbitch seemed content to leave him to his own devices after she’d followed him on a hunt and spent an afternoon peppering him with blunt, humorless questions and creepy observations. Even the crippled Stark, after gazing at him pensively for a brief period of time, rolled by with little more than a sniff.  

The Lady of Winterfell hadn’t made an appearance.  

He’d seen her – in the halls, sitting at the Head table, having conversations with the Northern Lords or marching through the castle with the Great Blond Cunt she called a sworn shield. The ladyknight did nothing to make the Lady of the Keep any more demure or nonthreatening. Sansa wore robes of the finest black, waist cinched with a deadly looking chain and face so sharp and impassive it could have been made of sheet ice. Not once had she looked at or talked to him and he’d been alert for three days before deciding there was no threat.  

Sansa Stark wanted nothing to do with him. Or so he’d thought.  

“Do you remember this, Sandor?” She asked him from somewhere above. He felt her move and then all of a sudden, he could sense how close she was in the darkness as she whispered. 

“Do you remember the Battle of Blackwater? Do you remember coming to my room, drunken dog, and holding a knife to my throat?”  

He grunted slightly as she wiggled the blade, inching it painfully along his tender skin. He calculated he could probably bodily throw her across the room and the best she could do was a cut but sensed what was going on needed to happen. What she was describing had tortured him for months – what he said, what he did, what he’d gone to her intending to do. What he hadn’t done.  

Selfishly, in the months on the Quiet Isle digging graves he’d found that he regretted not having her in that way, even against her will. His sins couldn’t be forgiven anyway and he’d still never drink his name from between her lips.  

He’d long since come to the realization he would die an unhappy man. It was simply a homage to the horror and fear he’d caused in his life that he’d never know what he took from the people he killed.  

“Aye, little bird,” He rasped and she all but growled at the name and leaned over him, her body weight behind the tentative threat on his life. He could tell now she was sitting beside him, leaning over him from her left.  

“Don’t call me that,” She said through gritted teeth. He chuckled under her blade, feeling slightly delirious with the understanding of how little he cared if she killed him. If he could choose anyone to end his life, it would be her anyways. He’d just never banked on it.  

“What should I call you, _my lady_?” He emphasized smugly, knowing how to needle her best and relishing in the opportunity to goad her. There was a beat of silence.   

“Say my name,” She answered carefully. Sandor inhaled through his nose and exhaled heavily, looking to the darkness where he knew she was like he could see her face, try to read the expression on it.  

“Sansa.” 

“No. Softer.”  

He was quiet a moment, trying to figure out where this was going. He tried again. 

“Sansa.”  

The knife pressed a little, displaying her temper the way he displayed his. She leaned forwards again, breath caressing his cheek.  

“Say it.”  

“I _did_ ,” He replied with ire and she made a noise that sounded like a scoff.  

“What did you come to me for on that night?” 

He inhaled slowly through his nose, glaring at where she was as she struck the nerve they both knew was raw.  

“I came to offer you a way out.” 

“ _Lies_.”  

“Think what you want, I was leaving. I left,” He reminded her dismissively and set his jaw as he looked straight ahead like she could see his insolence.  

“You came to me for a song, remember?”  

“I remember you singing,” He countered shortly. There was a cloying and insidious lilt to her voice when she asked it, like she was leading him down a long hallway to his death.  

“You came to have me, to rip me and bleed me and leave me as broken as they tried to make me,” She accused him with a gush of fresh anger, the pain of the truth in her words making his own heart hurt in response. He wished he could honestly deny it but after all this time he knew there was no level of honesty that could lessen the blow. So he didn’t answer, instead lifting his chin and exposing more of his throat.  

She waited and his silence pulsed between them like an excited heartbeat and she made another noise of frustration.  

“ _Answer me_ ,” Sansa ground out and Sandor made a noise of outrage as she flipped the knife and slapped the small cut she’d made with the flat of the blade before returning it to its prior threat. The urge to grab her entire head in the palm of his hand was just under the surface and he barely contained it, unused to being both threatened and insulted. The dog in him howled its fury.  

“I couldn’t force a child.” 

“Then why did you kiss me?”  

Her question made him jolt with surprise, cranking his head dangerously under the blade to blindly stare at her agog in the blackness. His brain sputtered with confusion, as he’d been drunk and desperate but was sure _kissing_ her would have been retained somewhere in his consciousness.  

“I never kissed you, Sansa.”  

“ _Why do you lie to me?”_ She all but wailed and he thrashed mildly in an attempt to reach her and quiet her with his hand. He grunted in the darkness as she did well on her threat and he felt her blade open up a couple inches of his upper pectoral as she fought his movement in the darkness and slapped his hands away from her. He made a grunted noise of pain as she sliced him and then his head snapped the other way as she backhanded him, the noise too loud in the tiny room. A hot mask of pain settled over his face following the blow and he faced her again to snarl at her for her violence and felt the blade return to his neck, this time buffeted by her hand on his forehead forcing his head back.  

He’d have struggled back and overpowered her easily if not for the knife and the sensation of her soft, warm breasts pressed unfettered against his chest as she leaned over him. He could tell from the heat and the gentle give of the flesh against his that she wore no bindings and only a sleeping shift, as the flimsy material had the thickness of spider silk. 

“I swear to you. I never kissed you. It was a fever dream.”  

“You are a lying dog,” She answered him back, the words whispered like her eyes were welling with tears.  He clenched his jaw at the sadness and disbelief in her voice, refusing to even try to guess at what she was playing at. He tried again, to answer both her questions.  

“I forget a lot, aye. My life is shit. Always has been, always will be. But I’d remember kissing Sansa Stark.” 

There was another silence and he savoured the flavour of being honest to her as she processed his words. They were at a crossroads of understanding.  

“You left me.”  

Her words were not accusatory but still cut him to the core – they were lost, confused, vulnerable. They were the words of the little girl he’d suddenly realized she was the night of the Blackwater. Her hips then had only just started to flare and the tiny buds she’d tried to squeeze into tight childlike gowns promised of breasts to behold. It had rocked him suddenly how _young_ she was, how thirsty he was for the woman he thought she would eventually become.  

It hurt that that imaginary woman was now the same who snuck into his room in the black of night to threaten his life with a knife years later - but Sansa had always been a wolf. He’d seen it on her as a child when she made the decision to kill Joffrey on the gangplanks and taken the two steps forwards to do it before he stopped her. It takes a lot to drive a child to kill, especially a gentile one of noble birth who’d known nothing but love and acceptance. Ironically, Joffrey had almost lost his life to a girl in salmon coloured silks. 

“I asked you to come with me,” He replied flatly. She trembled suddenly, the shiver moving through the entire portion of her body that he could feel against him and her teeth chattered for a moment.  

“It’s both my greatest regret and honest relief. If I’d gone with you then we wouldn’t be sitting here now. They would have killed you,” She answered him, voice wrecked with emotions he swore he could feel swirling between them like dust in a storm. He shrugged under her, the movement causing her to shift further against him. The knife was loosely held in the area against his neck, her fingers bordering on relaxed. He could grab it and toss it and flip her over and show her why sneaking into warrior’s bedrooms at night was dangerous.  

The thought was dangerously appealing, as Sandor allowed the knowledge that she was threatening him to be arousing instead of insulting. It had floated to the surface during their conversation and he was having a losing battle with his body and how he was reacting to her. Her smell was intoxicating, all female and lemony like she was a ripe fruit with soft, succulent skin he could feast on. She’d shown up in his bed in the night like a shadow, his most craven wish. Her thin shift, ever present in his fantasies, was now a torture tool as his fingers itched to slide along it’s lines on her body.  

“They would have raped and killed you and made me watch. Asking you endangered your life.”  

“So why did you?”  

“Because I’m selfish,” Sandor answered her candidly. This answer came easily, he’d admitted it enough to Elder Brother during his recovery on the Quiet Isle. The doddering old fool had insisted on unpacking what he called Sandor’s ‘mystery lass’ and coached and goaded prickly honesty from him.  

“All men are selfish. All men are killers,” Sansa repeated to him with a darkness to her tone that made him frown in the night. The knife came alive, her hand tightening on the hilt and the sharp edge moving to a new site of injury a few millimeters above her previous work and applying light pressure. Sandor sighed with annoyance as he pressed himself into the pillow while Sansa sat up to loom over him. Then her weight shifted and his whole body stiffened as she threw a leg over his lap and then all to easily, she was atop him.  

She was warm, the weight of her comfortable above him and the tender flesh of her inner thighs buffeted his hips. She all but sat on his lower stomach and he wondered if it was possible she was unaware he was completely nude beneath the northern sheep's wool blankets. He could feel the give and press of her bottom and delicious curve of it as she leaned forwards and plunged her free hand into his hair. Sansa’s fingers curled tightly, fisting a large lock of black hair that he let hang to cover the burned side of his face and she gave what she probably assumed was a nasty yank. The nerve damage from his burns took it as an incredibly satisfying tug on a scalp that always felt too tight.  

He made a noise he stifled by gritting his teeth as if he were annoyed she’d hurt him.  

“My husband was a killer. A nasty, soppy little man who stole and took whatever he felt was owed to him. He wanted to be a _noble_ , wanted everyone to call him _lord_ and _ser_. Every time he forced me, every time he’d hold me down and take me while I screamed and kicked, I heard your voice. I heard you reminding me. ‘Save yourself some pain, girl, give him what he wants’,” Sansa quoted from above him and his own memory of spitting those words at her time and time again swam forth.  

The revulsion he felt was swift and violent, clawing its way up the back of his throat like he’d swallowed a live rat. She didn’t stop, her story now pouring out of her like a waterskin that had been gored.  

“Every time he did something horrible, I heard you. If you can’t protect yourself, die and get out of the way. So I did, I _protected_ myself and you know what I learned?” She hissed at him and the anger was back, appearing and disappearing at whim. She dragged the edge and the blade audibly ground on the stubble coating his neck.  

“I’m not a pretty little bird, I’m a monster,” Sansa breathed tremulously and Sandor’s breath caught in his chest as her hand released his hair, traveling down to cup the twitching side of his face. She touched him the same gentle and sweet way she had after he’d forced a song out of her during the Blackwater. The pressure of her soft, smooth palm sliding over the waxy ruin of his face was so violently poignant he was thrown back into the drunken delusion of wanting to chase her lips and hating himself for it. He could hear the scream of fire arrows and smell the soot and ash and burnt flesh. He could feel the stiffness of the dried, cracked blood splashed on his skin.  

“Doubt that,” He rasped.  

“I am. You were right. When I killed my husband, it was the sweetest note of my life. I listened to him die with a smile on my face and I live with the fact that I should feel bad and I _don’t.”_  

The admission didn’t surprise him. As much as he was loath to admit it, she was borne to be ravished against her will by the animals of nobility and when she was in King’s Landing he had simply adopted the attitude of preparing her for _when_ , not _if_. The only thing that surprised him now was that she wasn’t the broken song of a girl he’d seen her to be. Instead she’d grown fangs and fought back.  

Something in him swelled, eclipsing his heart and curving one side of his mouth to what in daylight might have been taken for a smirking grin.  

“Sounds like a wolf to me,” He grunted in return.  

She didn’t answer, the hand on his face instead travelling over his jaw and down his neck. As soon as he felt her fingers brush the divide between his burn and the adjoining oversensitive unburnt skin on his clavicles, his hand shot up and snared it tightly. He opened his mouth to warn her off and grunted in pain when he was jabbed sharply in the forearm by the tip of her blade. It stung hotly and he could feel the little rivet of blood gathering on his skin from the wound but he didn’t release her hand.  

“This is a dangerous game little bird,” He managed raggedly after a few moments of silent struggle between their clasped hands and she made an audible scoff. He grunted again as the invisible blade she wielded made another small cut on his bicep and this time he did let go. The hand began moving immediately, fingertips smoothing and questing over the ragged divide in his flesh hungrily. He could feel them, almost tickling but definitely enjoyable, as they followed the spill of his burn over his clavicles and out. She searched the wrecked round of skin on his shoulder and tricep and he shivered when he felt her fingers sliding along the unblemished skin on his inner bicep. She stopped at a thick, round scar that was just above his elbow. An arrow had buried itself there, thankfully not shattering his arm.  

The flat of her palm then pressed itself to his pec, sweeping over the muscled expanse of it like she was smoothing fabric on a pincushion. Sandor’s breath stilled as she boldly traced his right nipple, which was more sensitive due to the damage mere inches above it.  

Then her adventure continued, despite the aching whine that was threatening to erupt from his throat as if he were Stranger being petted like a housecat. She quested left, her fingers finding different slashes and gashes knitted together with scar tissue, old and new. He let her, vaguely wondering what catharsis she got out of molesting him and too touch-starved to stop her. No woman in his entire life had ever touched his scars fleetingly, let alone wondrously exploring them in the pitch darkness. His skin was coming alive, goosebumps forming as she brushed his coarse chest hair and finally those warm digits were exploring his left nipple and sliding torturously down the side of his ribcage. 

It felt exquisite. The dog in him wasn’t minding having his belly rubbed and the warrior in him was deeply uncomfortable he wasn’t doing anything about it.  

He was more concerned that the Lady of Winterfell was sitting one simple movement above one of the hardest erections he’d had since he was a teenager. The instinct to rock his hips upwards and against her was almost overwhelming but he knew better than to lose it. He felt bewildered, confused why this was happening but willingly unable to quell the momentum. He felt like she was a deer and if he startled her by moving too quickly or showing her how quickly she was fraying all the ropes of his restraint she’d dash off and he’d lose whatever was happening here.  

He couldn’t do that, not with so much at stake.  

His breath was coming in sharper breaths and he took to trying to stare mutinously at the ceiling. She sat up straighter and he jerked slightly as both her hands spread out over his diaphgram and rubbed gently out over his sides. She found every knife wound and scabbard slash and spear mark on his chest and belly, feeling them expertly and saying nothing before moving on, lower and lower. Sandor’s head began to spin and his brain was clouding, nipples tight in the now cool air and in half-agony, half-pleasure at the intense sensations of her attention.  

“Your body is a map of pain,” She finally said with a sadness he knew he didn’t deserve. It wasn’t when she was touching it. He cleared his throat, voice decrepit from suppressed moans. 

“Cunt of a brother ruined the merchandise early. No point trying to preserve anything,” He answered coarsely and she made a noise that sounded thoughtful and agreeable.  

“It’s the loneliest type of freedom, isn’t it? To be ruined?”  

He bristled slightly, hating the concept of her calling him lonely and relating his ‘ruin’ to hers. His body was wrecked – he was covered in silver slashes and angry red tissue, had an entire chunk of thigh missing that caused him to limp and age was bringing a gritty resistance to his joints. The pain of riding for 4 days horseback in armor was felt more acutely now than it had at any point in his life. No one would ever want him, for title or for love, and he had long since become familiar with that.  

Sansa would be valuable for as long as her heart beat, no matter how cynical she became.  

“You expect me to believe you’re a ruin, girl?” He sniped at her in the dark, fixing where he thought she’d be with a slicing glare he would have used to make her pale and stammering when she was a younger.  

She made a series of small wiggles on his hips that had him clenching his jaw and his hands come up to almost touch her hips – be it to stop her moving or pull her down and rut against her softness he wasn’t sure. He heard a gentle swish and a warm wave of woman scented air swept over him and his brain hadn’t processed what that was when her strong little digits snared his right hand from beside him on the bed.  

“By the fucking Maiden,” Sandor cursed as she lifted his hand and pressed the warm mound of her breast into his palm. She filled it gently, his calluses no match for the warmth and softness of the flesh and her pebbled nipple insistent against the center of his hand. His breath was sharp and ragged by now, erection pulsing with his racing heartbeat. It was the first time he was enjoying being near delirium.  

She picked up his other hand and tried to apply it to her other breast and he resisted. His control was a thick, twisted rope that was dwindling to a few contentious hairs snapping one at a time. Having both his paws filled with the teats of Ned Stark’s daughter would cause it to break violently.  

She tugged and he pulled back, opening his mouth to try to explain and letting out a sharp hiss of pain. She’d shifted and like lightning picked up the knife again, the burning score of the metal now stinging yet another small hole in his bicep on the other side. Then she brought it to his throat again, leaning slightly forwards towards his face.  

“ _Touch me_ ,” Sansa snarled furiously and he moved his hand forwards, encompassing the globe and giving it a squeeze, not ungently. His eyes sunk closed pleasurably as she sat back slightly, pressing them forwards and allowed him to manipulate them. He moved them, let them go to trace the flats of his palms in circles against her nipples, circled them, pinched them. Incredibly, she let him and seemed to enjoy it. His tugging had made her moan, a noise that had slid down his spine and directly into his groin. He wanted to sit up and suck what he imagined were rosy peaks into his mouth but remained on his back, soaking in the feel of her.  

She used her hands to direct him, making him smooth his great paws out over her ribcage and pushing his right hand down over the curve of her hip. He was aware he was shaking slightly, fighting the instinct to flip her over and ravage her, and firmly applied his fingers to quell it.  

She was so soft, like the finest silk, that as soon as she let him begin to explore her unaided a feeling of horror and rage welled up inside him. They were impossible to miss on her supple skin, rough and raised under his own touch. He lifted his hands as if to strangle her and spread them over her own clavicles. Then he mimicked her motions, following the gentle slope of her thin shoulders and feeling the circular burns ringing her neck below the gownline. Her beautiful, soft breasts and delicate bones of her chest were striped with long, thin whelps that spoke of flesh being whipped open. Some of the scars were still bagged, suggesting she’d not had any medical help to close them.  

Her waist pulled in tightly under her ribs and her taut stomach was a confusing mess of wide, ribbed splotches of burns and smaller crosshatches from nicks and stabs. He remembered her time in King’s Landing and knew it would have taken a lot to get her to cry. This woman had taken the flat of a knight’s broadsword to her thighs as a girl and had left the ballroom using said legs. She would be a sadist’s wet dream, made of ice and steel as she was.  

By the time he was done running his hands obsessively over her torso, he realized she was waiting. He paused, not sure what she was waiting for before it occurred to him. His brain swam, trying to parse for words and never having been good with any of them. He found her breasts again, gathering them together with both his hands reverently.  

“They could cut your teats off and you’d still be the image of the Maiden,” He finally forced out and mentally winced as he did so. He was always coarse and vulgar, unable to fit any other language into his repertoire and only now did he regret he had no honeyed tongue.  

Instead of a rebuke, he took a sharp intake of breath as she moaned breathily and rocked her hips on his lower stomach. He could almost feel the screaming heat from her sex and his shaky exhale was ardently focused on wanting to slip his fingers between them and touch her. By now he’d fucked a lot of redhead whores and he knew what shade of pink they were and he longed to know if Sansa would be like she was in his head.  

“When I was in the Vale, my friend Randa told me a man feels good if you want him. We used to lay in our sleepover bed and whisper about the men we imagined ravishing us. She had wild descriptions and I had nothing. I didn’t know how to want someone other than my family,” Sansa explained breathlessly and Sandor stiffened as he felt her turn and the blankets covering him were thrown to his knees. He stifled his noise of discontent, the cool air caressing his groin and his cock twitching upwards hopefully. His entire leg jerked and Sandor finally groaned as he felt idle, loose fingers touch the inside of his left knee and trail in generous waves up the inside of his thigh. His crotch throbbed with the want of her touch and he wished more than anything to feel her tiny digits wrapped around his cock.  

A small lick of shame tried to enter the fire of his arousal – he was on his back listening to her darkest secrets about how she wanted no one while she teased the stiff, dripping evidence of how badly he wanted her. His inner dog would spill countlessly into his hands for the rest of his life just to get an opportunity to sniff her cunt once. He swore he could smell her and the heady scent of her core and it made his mouth dry and his fingers itchy, scrabbling for purchase in sanity.  

“Sansa,” He tried almost pleadingly and her name turned into a frustrated moan as those fingers she was dragging over him behind her back deftly avoided the root of him and brushed the coarse hair of his pubis instead. Instinctively he flexed his hips upwards towards her hand and barked out a sharp curse as the blade made itself known again by pressing coldly against his diaphragm.  

“When I tried to want, I started with the Prince of Flowers. Every time I closed my eyes, he wasn’t enough. There was always a shadow, bigger and more impressive than he could ever be. His hands looked ladylike, I wanted hands that could wield any sword. Hands that could kill a man. He had a lithe body and I imagined the shoulders of the Warrior. He was beautiful with pretty blue eyes and an easy smile and soft words and nothing made me shiver unless I imagined hard grey eyes that mocked me for touching myself,” She told him breathlessly and Sandor inhaled as the cold metal pressed into the very sensitive center of his chest. He didn’t move in inch and found himself enjoying how vicious she was, displaying her temper and taking him on in a way he’d never imagined she’d ever grow the guts to.  

The words coming from her sounded like something he’d never even allowed himself to hope and he did everything he could not to drown in them.  

“Ramsay hurt, every time. I hated him. Even with the oils, I tore and bled. One day, he had me tied naked over a barrel,” She recalled in a semi-detached voice that made Sandor felt guilty at how appealing the image was in his mind, despite his revulsion over her pain. He imagined her snow-white arse cheeks, a handful each. He thought of the heart shape her hips and ass would make as he took her from behind.  

“He thought so much of his dogs and so little of me he thought it would insult me to take me like one. He left me there for hours before - that was his mistake because I started thinking. How we make love like the animals we so compare ourselves to. I was to be taken like a dog, how would a dog take me? How would the Hound take me?”  

Sandor said nothing as pure arousal pulsed hotly through his system, his mouth open and the one side twitching slightly in shock. He was glad she couldn’t see him in the darkness, he’d look like a greenboy seeing teats for the first time. His brain slipped and skid over itself like a horse on a shale slope. She leant forward again, the knife angling to press the wicked tip nearly into his flesh, to whisper his own words in his good ear.   

“Do you know what dogs do to wolves?” 

His breathing increased to panting and his cock twitched painfully at her words, her lips so close they brushed his remaining ear lobe when she spoke. The knife disappeared and Sansa’s grip found his hand again, fisted in the furs under him as it was. She yanked it towards her between them and before he had time to process a reply, turned his palm up and pressed his fingers into her impossibly hot center. He felt short curls covering the entire cleft before she pressed his digits into her folds and Sandor marveled at how _wet_ she was. He’d had women comfortably but they’d always used an oil to slicken themselves – her natural wetness was thinner, impossibly slippery and made his cock weep. She _wanted_ him and the fact that she’d snuck into his room and climbed on top of him to let him know left him shocked deeper than the time he’d willingly ridden a dragon.  

He said the only thing he had left in his arsenal of defense.  

“You’re the Lady of Winterfell. This could get both of us killed,” He rushed out and his voice was a ruin of suppression, coarser than usual and whispered. A part of him wanted her to come to her senses and a larger part of him knew he would die if she did. She made another noise of frustration, a clear growl of rage and the knife cut him sharply on the hip. Sandor hissed in pain and didn’t notice when she replaced the dagger against his sternum, tip down.  

“I want to want and you’re not going to stop me,” She threatened him clearly and made a movement which could have been tossing her long mane over her shoulder, as the tendrils tickling his lower ribs were whisked away. His own anger flared back at her, catching at how flippant she was about her power in the moment. 

“Then quit your chirping, little bird,” He rumbled at her and smiled when her hand slapped colours into his eyes in the dark. He liked her vicious and angry, she spoke plainly and was predictable.  

She rose slightly on her knees, the indents beside him deepening and shifted downwards and Sandor gasped as he nudged the dampened curls. She held herself away, wrapping her hand around the base of him and holding him in place as she lowered herself onto him again, dipping the head of his cock into the trove of heat at her entrance. He could feel the give of her and whined in his throat when she dragged him through her folds so he could feel how she’d coated him. Without further warning, she sunk down on him and he was enveloped in the tight heat of her. Neither of them heard how loudly they moaned as she sank all the way down.  

They both panted in the moment after, Sandor feeling her walls fluttering around him and fighting the tooth and nail instinct to pull out and drive into her in a frenzy. After a moment, she circled her hips torturously before she started a rhythm. Hesitant at first, she drove him finger-clawing mad with the wickedly slow pace, in and out that started to build.  

He reached his hand between them again, searching the top of her slit until he could feel the small peak that he gently coursed a finger in circles over. Sansa’s moan was music to his ears, throaty and relieved, like he’d found a sore muscle. She moved harder and eventually there was the distinct slap of her skin on his as she bounced up and down and made tiny, stuttering little moans as she did. He was grateful he couldn’t see her in all her glory, breasts bouncing and legs flexing or he’d lose it. He imagined her eyes closed, head tilted back and her mouth open. He imagined watching his cock disappear into her and then pull back out glazed in her want for him. He panted harshly as he flexed his hips in a rocking motion and continued his ministrations on her clit. It had been a White Harbour redhead after he left the Quiet Isle that matched Sansa’s shade exactly that had taught him how to make a woman moan, costing him 6 gold dragons over 2 days.  

Now, he used that knowledge readily. Anything to make her not think of her cunt of a dead husband. Anything to make this absurd exchange, this moment stolen in time and hidden in the darkness from her watchful Gods, imprint itself on her. He wanted her to carry this with her forever, just as she did the Bolton cunt, to remind her that she was perfect. She deserved the endless love of a man worthy of her and while he would never be that man, he could pretend.   

“Randa was right,” Sansa gasped as she leaned forwards and put her hands on his chest, shifting her weight to fuck him harder, “You feel good.”  

Sandor groaned, wishing she’d stop talking. Everything she was saying was sending him spiraling closer and closer to losing himself and he desperately rode the edge, wanting her to find her peak and wanting to memorize every second of being within her. The wooden bed frame was attempting to make faint, stiff squeaks in protest.  

“Gods be good, woman, you’re ruining me further,” Sandor groaned in reply and swore he heard a small, breathless laugh before it pinched off into almost a pained moan and her cunt contracted around him slightly. He fucked up into her a little, unable to not meet her thrusts anymore and grunted with her as she whimpered in warning again.  

“Please, please, please,” She whispered her chant mindlessly as Sandor used his fingers desperately and clenched his teeth, trying to think of mountains or boiling wine on flesh or bloody Brienne of Tarth to stave off the bubble of pleasure building in him.  

“Come on, fly away little bird,” He urged her as gently as he could and she let out a loud cry akin to a sob and Sandor grunted as she clamped tightly around him at the top of her thrust. Her keening hung in the air between them as she slowly sank down, cunt twitching and convulsing around his sensitive flesh. He followed her over with a curse, his hearing blotting out and his moan rough and drawn out while he shuddered and emptied himself inside her.  

They lay there for moments afterwards, panting harshly and their brains processing nothing. Sandor slowly became aware she was still on top of him, sprawled on his chest with her head on his clavicles. His neck still stung where she’d cut it earlier, as did the vague heat from the other cuts she’d made and he couldn’t be more thrilled. He’d be damned if he wasn’t going to memorize and regularly touch the scars he’d gotten from her. Scars he could declare he got from fucking a wolf. The thought made him grin ferally in the dark and idly wrap and arm around her waist, holding her tiny naked body to his. He was softening quickly now, spent and eager to sleep with her tucked close to his chest and he felt both himself and a fair amount of his seed leave her as she shifted with an uncomfortable sigh.  

The crushing disappointment came when he realized she’d not be able to stay; daylight would reclaim their lives shortly. Unconsciously, he clutched her tighter to him and she hummed contentedly.  

“Now you must come back. You can’t die when you go fight the Others with Jon,” Sansa told him in a voice mauled by happiness and sleep. Sandor frowned.  

“You think I want to die?”  

“I know you don’t care if you do. Now you can't,” She answered him and lifted her head, shifting again to half sit up on his chest. He had to admit, she wasn’t wrong. He’d have gladly died alongside her bastard brother knowing it was the last thing he could do to protect her, the realm. Absolve him of his sins before his body became a tool for the Night King.  

“Because you’ve decided I have a purpose for you?” He challenged her, somehow unable to feel like being used as a stud was a bad thing, considering what he was usually used for. Sansa scoffed at him audibly this time.  

“Because I won’t survive it. This Targaryen Queen has dragons, has armies, has Jon, has resources to spend in this war. I have you, I have Winterfell. If we lose you, they will come and I’ll lose everything else. And, I’d kill myself before I see you marching with the undead,” She declared fiercely and her voice shook, causing him to put one hand on her lower back and stroke the soft skin just above her bottom.  

“I’ll come back.” 

“I know you spit on vows,” Out of nowhere, the familiar kiss of steel appeared under his chin and she had lifted her head and was talking at his face in the black, “Swear it.”  

He clenched his jaw, his brain fighting the demand and going through all the reasons for and against it before he heaved a large breath and exhaled in a long-suffering sigh.  

“Fine,” He rasped, “I swear it.”   

Tired of this game he moved like lightening and grabbed the knife, twisting her wrist so she gasped and released it and then without looking he hurled it as hard as he could away from them. The loud _thunk_ of the metal burrowing into wood suggested it had hit a piece of furniture. There was a beat of silence before Sansa let out a girly giggle, as if she’d just avoided death and couldn’t do anything but laugh.  

“Don’t try it again,” He grumped warningly and she wiggled beside him, inching up his body so her face was even with his.  

“Why? So no one knows a naked woman can best Sandor Clegane?” She teased him huskily and he snorted derisively in retort. Her hand came up and cupped the burned side of his face, fingertips stretching towards the disfigured hole in his skull where his other ear should be. He could feel the pressure but not the sensation and leaned into it without thinking, huffing a harsh sigh at the injustice of it all.  

He didn’t believe in Gods. If there were Gods that disfigured him as a boy, used him for unspeakable acts in every war since and put then this vision of perfection into his life in a way he could never have her, they were evil. Evil doesn’t deserve to be worshipped. He’d rather worship her and her magical wet cunt.  

“Northern women are wildlings in skirts,” He finally declared to her and she shrugged, the movement shifting her entire upper body against his.  

He got a split second of warning from the heat of her face approaching his before he felt her lips find his. Shy at first, she grew bolder when he didn’t recoil from her and her lips moved, molding to his gently. He tried to return it, half of his mouth an unresponsive mess and his heart soared when she smiled against his lips and kissed him harder. She plundered his mouth for a while, tasting and licking and sucking one half of his lower lip in a way that made him groan before pulling away and whispering, “I like your singing voice.”  

It was his turn to bark a laugh and pull her mouth back to his.  

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> my sansa has bones made of valyrian steel and she's done with everyone's shit. i'd like to note any misspellings, grammar errors and formatting annoyances are my mistakes alone however, in my defense, in my country 'color' is spelled 'colour'. 
> 
> comments are nutrients (feed me i'm hungry)


End file.
